


Strays

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby accidentally adopts everything in sight, Character Study, Gen, POV Bobby Singer, Pre-Season/Series 01, a few implications/references to child and animal abuse, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: Bobby’s always been prone to taking in strays. Sam and Dean are just the last in a long line of ‘em.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Caleb (Supernatural: Salvation), Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Strays

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not be planning on writing a fic where Bobby takes in Sam and Dean for good...  
> *clears throat*  
> This fic kind of just happened in half an hour. Thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y'all!

Karen used to tease him about it, about how any animal or kid with a tragic story could win him over. He never kept any of the stray animals he took in when Karen was alive-- that was her rule, and he knew it was a good one-- but Bobby fed them and found them good homes. As for the kids, well. Bobby’s terrified of having his own-- he knows what runs in his blood-- but he teaches them how to fix up a car and doesn’t ask about the bruises shaped like hands and his wife insists they stay for dinner. And Bobby tells himself it’s enough, to be a safe place in a world with precious few of them for those kids.

After ~~he kills her~~ after Karen dies, the bony, skittish animals become all he has. (The kids aren’t allowed to be around a potential murderer, which Bobby understands.) 

There’s hunting to get him out of bed, of course, but Bobby is all too aware of how easy it would be to let his guts get ripped out, and the animals give him a reason not to get his fool ass killed. 

He keeps Rumsfeld because no one wants a Rottweiler, because no one wants an ugly mutt with so many scars. Bobby tells himself there’s no other reason but necessity for it, but deep down he knows it’s because he sees himself in the dog. 

Point is, Bobby’s always been a bit of a soft touch, despite his gruffness. That’s why, when Caleb-- a hunter he knows from meeting once at the Roadhouse-- shows up on his doorstep held together with superglue and a ripped-up t-shirt, Bobby sighs heavily and tells Rumsfeld to heel.

“I need your help,” Caleb says. There’s blood staining through the front of his flannel. “Please.”

Kid can’t be more than thirty. Bobby takes off his hat to run his hand through his hair. Replacing it, he says, “You run into a wolf or something, boy?”

“A couple of them, actually,” Caleb says. He sways on his feet. “I hate to ask, but--”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, stepping aside and grabbing Caleb’s arm as he stumbles over his own feet. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

Caleb turns out to be twenty-three beneath the dirt and blood. Stripped to the waist in Bobby’s bathtub, he looks even younger despite the scars and muscle. Bobby dumps hydrogen peroxide onto the claw marks and doesn’t wonder what this kid did to get himself into hunting so young. 

"How’d you find me, anyway?” Bobby asks as he helps the kid into a clean shirt. They’d both passed the threshold of embarrassment about the point at which Bobby had had to carry Caleb up the stairs. 

“Ellen,” Caleb says, grunting with effort as he slides his arms into the sleeves of Bobby’s borrowed shirt. “She said you were the closest hunter to Wyoming that could help.”

“She could have warned me,” Bobby grumbles, but there’s no heat to his words. “Glad you got this far.”

Caleb smiles wanly. His pupils are small enough that Bobby’s pretty sure the Vicodin has finally kicked in. “Thanks, man. Can I crash here for the night?”

“As long as you need,” Bobby says, and he means it. “Just don’t go pulling those stitches, I didn’t do all that work for nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Caleb says, mostly jokingly.

Bobby winces before he can stop himself. _Every time_. “Bobby,” he corrects. “Just Bobby."

“All right.” Caleb must have caught the flinch, but he doesn’t ask. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Any time, kid,” Bobby says. “Well. Maybe not any time, but if you ever need your stomach stitched up, you know where to find me.”

(Caleb needs Bobby to stitch up his stomach twice more in his lifetime. Bobby never minds, just stocks up after every visit and sometimes can’t sleep wondering about the kid.)

Bobby worries about Caleb, on occasion. 

But Bobby doesn’t know worry until he meets the Winchesters.

Ellen sends Pastor Jim Murphy Bobby’s way for research on demons. Bobby’s stray instincts don’t kick in with Jim-- Jim’s too old, for one thing, and rock-steady in his faith to the point that Bobby’s a little intimidated-- but they strike up a friendship quickly enough. 

Jim sends John Winchester Bobby’s way for the same reason. 

“John’s…” Jim sighs, the noise crackling over the phone’s speakers. “John’s a hard one, Bobby, I won’t lie to you. He’s a hard one, and he’s a bit of an asshole, but he’s as steady as they come.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Bobby mutters, but then, he’s met enough hunters to know that “a bit of an asshole” describes most of them, including himself. “Anything else I should know?”

“Just… Be gentle with the kids, all right?”

Bobby’s eyebrows shoot towards his hat brim. “Kids?”

“Yeah.” Jim’s voice is carefully neutral. “Sam’s two, Dean’s six. John’s hunting the thing that killed their mother.”

Well. If Bobby could sympathize with anything, that was it.

“Kids,” he repeats after he hangs up. “Jesus.”

Bobby takes one look at Dean standing protectively in front of his brother and curses Jim to the Heavens, because there was no way in Hell Jim hadn’t known what he was doing. 

Bobby tells himself firmly that these ain’t his kids, that these ain’t even strays, that these ain’t _his_ , damn it--

It does no good. Not when Dean’s eyes are so fierce and Sam’s are so lost. Not when Rumsfeld is straining at Bobby’s grip on his collar to greet the boys.

“Come inside,” he tells the three Winchesters, and looking back, Bobby will remember that moment as the last chance he’d had to avoid the boys that would be the death of him. 

Rumsfeld curls up with the two boys while they’re sleeping. Sam uses the dog as a pillow and Dean curls one arm around the Rottweiler’s neck.

Bobby looks in on the three of them from the doorway and knows in whatever’s left of his soul that these are strays he’ll be unable to let go of. 


End file.
